


Father to All of France

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis wants him to be a good dad too, Gen, Louis honestly wants to be a good dad, more angst than Louis realizes, speculation for series 2, yes I do have a slight kink about Aramis' birth name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his son is born, Louis is thrilled (and possibly just a bit terrified). Meanwhile, one of his musketeers seems less than joyful. Louis decides to cheer him up. Inspired by the series 2 promo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father to All of France

**Author's Note:**

> Home sick today. Here's something my brain pooped out. 
> 
> According to my (admittedly limited) research about life in the 17th century, miscarriage and child death was much less of a tragedy than we view it as today, simply because it happened with unfortunate frequency. Nevertheless, in the show (made for 21st century audiences), Aramis is still quite attached to his and Isabelle's child. In this story, I've tried my best to balance those two ideas.
> 
> tw: discussion of miscarriage

He's a father now. Well, he's been one for years in face-- a father to all of France, isn't that right?-- but things are different these past few days.

Because a few days ago, his son was born.

It's a weight off his shoulders, as he knew it would be-- an heir, a future of his country and a validation of his wife.

But possibly he wasn't expecting it to be so-- exciting? Frightening? So-- _personal_?

That's natural, he supposes. His son is his heir but his heir is also his _son_ and he's _thrilled_. So is Anne, so are their attendants. So is all of France.

Except possibly that one musketeer. He's quite severely bringing down the mood of the room. One of Treville's chosen four, the pointy-bearded one-- Louis can recognize him even if he cannot put a name to him-- is frowning and moping in the corner as though the world had ended. It's unbecoming, and in poor taste. To be chosen to stand watch in the palace over the Prince's earliest days-- surely it is an honor to end all others.

And yet this fellow looks nothing if not bereft. Louis, feeling generous, is willing to overlook this-- until the baby wakes cooing in Anne's arms, and the musketeer falters and fumbles and leaves.

He _leaves_.

Louis is on his feet before he's quite sure what he's going to do, and for a moment his only action is to stare at the door to the throne room as it settles shut. He glances round at the others. Anne is deliberately unbothered-- gracious as always-- and the other musketeers are exchanging looks that Louis can't quite follow. The grumpy one looks worried. The tall one and the new one look confused.

Then the grumpy one-- no, _Athos_ , Louis does know his name because Treville says he's the finest swordsman in the regiment-- steps forward. “Your Majesty, Aramis means no offense. I apologize on his behalf. He-- lost of a child of his own, some years back. It grieves him still.”

Louis heart sinks a bit at that. Well, he wasn't to know, was he? He forgets sometimes, that common men like musketeers can have hurts in their hearts as well.

“'f you'll excuse me, Your Majesty,” the tall one begins, “I'll go 'n get 'im--”

“No.” Louis draws himself up. “I'll see to him. Never let it be said that I do not care for the griefs of my people.” They all look a bit startled at this, as does Anne, which only adds to his determination.

Father to all of France, after all.

Practice can't hurt.

The musketeer is leaning with one shoulder to a column, facing out the window, and does not turn as Louis approaches. Instead he only sighs. “I'm all right, Athos,” he mutters. “I just needed some air.”

“I am not Athos.”

He stiffens at the voice, picking himself up to his full height, then immediately bowing his head. “Your Majesty! I'm-- my apologies. Please accept my apologies.”

Louis smiles graciously. “There is no need, _chevalier._ Aramis. That is what you call yourself?”

“Yes, sire,” he replies, raising his head shyly.

“I've never cared much for enlisting under adopted personas. Tell me, what is your real name?”

The man blinks, momentarily thrown. “D'Herblay,” he says at last. Louis prompts him with one eyebrow. “René d'Herblay,” he continues. “Your Majesty.”

“René. Good. There is no need for apologies, René d'Herblay. Your Athos told me everything.”

René frowns, tilts his head. “He did?”

“Yes. And I understand how even at a joyous moment, a heart can still be grieved. Tell me, just how long ago was it? That you lost the child?”

René goes stiff, then settles back into himself slowly. “It was well over a decade ago. I was only sixteen. The child was lost before birth. But I still think about it.” For a moment, Louis is very aware that René is probably a few years older than he is. That when this tragedy befell him, Louis himself likely still spoke with the voice of a boy.

“Naturally,” Louis soothes. “And rightfully. I have heard tell of commoners who-- do not mourn their lost children. The thought has always frightened me.”

“It's a luxury some cannot afford, Your Majesty,” René replies quietly. “Grief takes time. And time is often lacking.”

“You have taken the time.”

René smiles sadly. “Perhaps I should not have.” He crosses his arms and Louis finds himself copying the action.

“Anne lost a child once, before birth,” Louis says, quietly. “I lost--”

René frowns. “Sire?”

“It was years ago. She's made up for it now, of course.” He grins, and to his credit René attempts to smile as well.

“Isabelle was devastated,” he says, and his smiles falls away. “And also quite possibly relieved. Our position being different than yours, of course.”

“Did you ever blame her?”

“No.”

“Then who are you to blame? The Devil?”

“I suppose. Or possibly just God Himself.”

“That's heresy,” Louis scolds, but somehow it feels good to hear someone else admit to it. “Tell me, when your child was lost-- what became of your wife? Are you still married?”

René blushes slightly. “We never were, Your Majesty.”

“Ah. I see. Then what became of your-- lover?”

“We lost touch, for the most part. And then she died. Not yet a year ago.”

“I'm sorry,” Louis says-- and finds that he is sorry, though he's not sure that he's helping.

René's eyes are to the floor as he nods and replies, “thank you for saying so, sire.”

Perhaps he _is_ helping? “I nearly lost Anne, you know. Around that same time. There was an attempt on her life. She hid at a convent.”

Then René goes pale. “Yes, sire. I-- remember.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. The four of us were the musketeers assigned to accompany her to the waters.”

“Well, the waters did their job!” Louis reminds him brightly. “I'm sure the whole affair was a nightmare, and I was worried sick. But soon after--!” he pats happily at his own stomach. “So it's a happy ending after all.”

René still looks a bit pallid, but he nods his agreement. “You are a father now, Your Majesty. I can't imagine a greater blessing.”

“Indeed,” Louis agrees, then feels a pang cut through his enthusiasm; René, whom he is meant to be cheering, looks sadder than ever now. And if he can't cheer a grown man, how in the world will he ever see to a _child_?

René swipes his thumb and forefinger across the inner corners of his eyes-- though wiping tears or merely soothing a headache, Louis cannot tell. He hopes quite fervently that it is the latter. He doesn't know what to do with weeping men-- or women, or children, or people in general really. Infants included.

“I don't know if I'll be a good father.”

The words surprise him, and the surprise angers him.

René says silent.

“The proper course of action to be taken when your King is doubting himself to is to assure him not to,” Louis sniffs. This earns him a chuckle at least.

“Do you love your child?” René murmurs.

“What an odd question. He is the Prince, and the future, of France.”

“Do you,” René repeats, “ _love_ him?”

Something happens inside Louis' stomach just then; it doesn't feel entirely natural, but neither is it unpleasant. “I do.”

“Then I'm sure you will be a wonderful father, sire.”

“It's only-- I don't remember my own father well.”

René's smile is sad again; Louis is beginning to wonder if it even comes in other versions-- though he's sure he's seen the man grin and laugh while accompanying him on hunts and picnics and other outings. “My fondest memory of my father-- he would take me by the wrists, like so-- and pick me up and _spin_ until my legs flew out behind me. My mother would shout herself hoarse at him, she was so afraid he'd hurt me. But I loved it. It made me feel like I could fly.”

“That hardly sounds dignified.”

“Perhaps not. But it was _fun_.” They share a smile.

“I build model ships. Did you know that?” René nods. “When he's old enough-- perhaps I'll teach him? I'll build ships with him and spin him around until he feels like he can fly. Is that a good start?”

There are most definitely tears in René's eyes now, and for a moment Louis nearly doubts himself again-- until René smiles anew, and it seems a bit less sad than a moment before. “I think that's a good start.”

“Excellent. Come.” In a fit of whimsy, Louis actually deigns to lay a hand on the man's arm, guiding him back towards the throne room. “It seems your friends are the sort to worry.”

“I suppose you know what that is like, sire.”

“Hm. I suppose I do now, yes.”

Just before the doors, René pauses. “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty. It was-- appreciated.”

“Not at all, René d'Herblay,” Louis replies grandly, and grins again, hoping to prompt one last smile from the musketeer. It works.

Father to all of France, after all. He'll be _wonderful_.


End file.
